Sharondipity, pt. 5

After I walked you home that bright, sunny morning in Manchester, we were to meet again the next day at Whitworth Park.


I woke late and rushed to get ready and walk down to meet you.


I found your friends listening to music and playing cards.


You walked up last wearing a bright orange dress, flowing in the wind, and you were singing “Red Solo Cup.”


I remember thinking to myself, “Oh God, not this song..”


You made it endurable with your cute smile and the way you nudged my side when you sat next to me in the springtime grass.


I remember cutting out early to give myself some reading space.


Salman Rushdie of all people.


Later, I had found a nearby restaurant to relieve myself, and there you are again having drinks with a schoolmate.


This time I pursued you.


We sat out on the patio watching people around.


Eventually even the most beautiful day this year had its end and a chill came over us.


I said I’d walk you home again, and we meandered the market near where your street met the main street.


I was smitten but I didn’t stay with you that night.


The next day, I wanted to be with you so badly that I messaged you about watching a movie together and I obsessively checked my phone to see if you had messaged me back.


It wasn’t until later that you said you’d like that, and I walked in the cold night to see you at your flat.


We watched the most horrid movie, and we talked for 32 hours without food or sleep.


We were obviously magnets of desire, and that night I gave you the best massage I could.


You loved it, and was almost asleep.


I quietly took our tea mugs into the kitchen, and turned off the lights before saying goodbye.


You stood up at the side of your bed and you said “Wait.”


At your standing height my lips could touch your forehead.


Your breath heated my chest and became longer before I kissed your lips there in the moonlight of your darkened bedroom.


Your sweet touch was so tender that I can almost feel you now.